GTA VI: Coast II Coast Dynasty
by Sir Jason Kidd Gray
Summary: Summary: Franklin Clinton was about to take over as leader of GSF when rival gangs attacked his uncle CJ's birthday bash. Now he and his three cousins are out for revenge. Will their bloodlust even the score? Or will they lose their lives in the underworld of crooked cops, thieves, and murderers? (Includes characters from GTA SA, IV, and V)
1. The Good Life

**Author's Note: I've been working on this plot for the longest and finally decided to start it after the release of GTA V. Even though this story features Franklin, I'm sorry to say I've barely played V (I don't own a gaming console, as I am a PC gamer). So if some stuff seems OC for Franklin, it's really not intentional. I've been watching LP vids on youtube to figure out his character and speech as accurately as possible because my homie who does own V plays with Trevor and Michael. So review and follow as the chapters progress. **

**If anyone knows how to do fan art, I'm looking for someone to do the cover art for this story. **

**Warnings: This chapter contains violence and vulgar language. If you don't like, don't read. The story is rated M for a reason.**

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**Xander's POV:**

"Leave me alone!" the girl I was chasing shrieked.

I caught up to her easily and encircled her waist with my tatted arms. My cross rested against her belly, and my Psalm 141 ink pressed against her tits in their tight pink bikini top. She batted futilely at my hands but I lifted her up anyway. "Girl, where you goin'?"

"Stop!" she shrieked. "Put me down!"

"Put you down?" I repeated. I backed toward the edge of the crystal clear pool's waters. "A'ight, I'm gonna do exactly that." With a grunt, I tossed the chick into the pool. She thrashed around and returned to the surface.

Gasping for air, she brushed back her soaked blonde microbraids. The chick looked ten times better in the pool than she did outside of it. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed. "Do you know how much my hair _costs_?"

"I hope it was more than your boob job, stupid bitch. They look like balloons with no air!" I yelled back.

She growled ferociously and splashed me. I flipped her a middle finger and walked off. I was lying about the tits; they were like soft bowling balls in that top. She was just the type to walk around a party like my uncle's with a teeny tiny outfit and not even give a dude so much as a handjob. Girls like that need stamps on their foreheads: looking for a sucker, will not suck ya.

Nicki Minaj's "Beez in the Trap" was flowing from the speakers at the DJ table, and I was most definitely in too good a mood to let some stank irk me. Fine girls were everywhere and in every color—caramel Latina chicks, pretty yellow Asian girls, redbones, brown-skinned chicks who could've been Mexican or Black, and girls so dark they looked like East African imports. I hoped I wasn't going to my hotel room alone that night.

Rather than scoping out a honeydip, I made my way to one of the tables near the grills. Four grills—and no, not a single Harvey Electrician—were operating at the same time around the pool under the supervision of my uncle's homies from the hood, OG's who could throw down with some meat and a hot grill! At the grill I rolled up to, a couple of Uncle Sweet's boys were grilling ribs, chicken, and burgers. Some of the OG's had vegetables; a few even had shrimp and fish on their grills. The aroma was drawing the girlies better than a shower in Sword bodywash.

I'll be honest with you though: I'm not slick like my pops. Back before me and my twin bro Xavier were born, he had six girls all at once. Moms was kind of the lucky draw because she got to have us and Pops married her. She just didn't win in the long term.

By the way, I'm Xander S. Johnson, elder son of Helena Wankstein and CJ Johnson. Yeah, they're _that _Helena Wankstein and _the_ CJ Johnson. When your parents are rich and famous, the up side is, you get pretty much whatever you want, whenever you want. Down side is, there's nothing Xavier or I can do that's worthwhile to our folks. Xavier and I graduated first and second (yeah, in that exact order, and he never lets me forget it) from our high school; played four years of varsity football and varsity basketball; won a state championship in each sport; and got into San Andreas Tech on academic and athletic scholarships (and some peons launched a blog war about it too), where we had made Dean's List in our freshman year.

All Moms—San Andreas' best A.D.A.—said: "Let's see if you can sustain that for the next three years."

Pops said, "I won two Grammys this year, and helped two artists get their first platinum albums. But I ain't stoppin' there, and you don't need to either."

I'm not being another emo rich boy, I promise. Far from it: What my parents lack in the ability to praise an accomplishment, they compensate with gifts for me and Xavier. We got nearly identical twin Banshees for our sixteenth birthdays, and classic Infernuses for our nineteenth birthdays, fully restored! And we've got friends, money, and Xavier's got girls for almost every day of the week. I know I've got good looks: 6'4", about 228 with a combination of Pops' kinky black hair, Moms' cold blue eyes, and the combination of their brains.

More on that later.

I gave my boy Rocks a pound as I pulled up to his gas-powered grill. Rocks was closer to my Pops' age and a big dude with inks on his arms, neck, and back from the family he had lost over the years he was in the game. But he had a personality that was closer to my age. A gorgeous chicana with shoulder-length black hair clung to one of Rocks' arms: his girlfriend Rosalina. From what I had heard, before Rosalina, Rocks was deep into robbery and burglary to get his paper. She had helped him to get off the street, into my pops' corporation as they were all GSF, and had helped him start his own restaurant.

"What's good, X?" Rocks said by way of greeting. Rosalina gave me a kind but not flirtatious smile. She was too respectable for that shit that the girls my age did. Both Rocks and Rosalina were all about the other one, and no one else got between them in the years they'd been together. I had mad love for both of them because of that.

"I'm just chillin' man," I answered. "How about you and the fam?"

"The kids are good. Hey, Javier just got all A's at that school your mom recommended."

"No lie?" Rocks shook his large, buzz cut head. "That's awesome man!"

Rosalina and Rocks both smiled with pride in their eldest son. "Speaking of the kids," Rosalina said to her man, "I'm going to call the babysitter and check on them."

"Alright, baby." Rocks and Rosalina exchanged a quick peck on the lips. They were together over fifteen years, but still had crazy love for each other. I saw it in the unhindered way that Rocks deepened the kiss and wrapped his arms around Rocks' waist before sending her off with a tap on her booty. "You need to get yourself a woman like that, X."

"Maybe one of these days, Rocks. But right now, I'm sampling all the ice cream I can, feel me?"

"You eating ice cream samples. Women like Rosalina, that's breakfast, lunch, and dinner."

The way the burgers sizzled on the grill had my stomach talking to me in three languages. "Aye Rocks, hook me up with some food, since you wanna keep talkin' about it."

Rocks laughed and flipped a thick, juicy burger onto the plastic plate in my hand. "Aye, before anything pops off, I gotta let you know: Your cousin Franklin is here with a few of the GSF crew."

"Cool, thanks for looking out man." I snatched a bun from the plastic sack beside the grill and arranged my ketchup and mustard on it. All the while I was scoping out the party for Franklin's easily recognizable face. Franklin had beef with my whole family, especially my pops and didn't recognize any of us as his fam. As long as he stayed wherever he was and away from me, Pops' party would be cool.

I spotted him on the other side of the pool, glaring at me. We stared each other down. Then Franklin's boys rolled up on him with a plate, and a fly White chick modeling a striped white-and-red bikini walked by me.

**Franklin's POV:**

I watched Xander turn and follow the White chick in the too-little bikini. She had a pretty face with a stripper's body, but I still shook my head at his obviously desperate pursuit of the girl. That nigga tried too hard, even when he was a little kid. He was a damn embarassament to niggas everywhere.

I turned to my boys Genius and Lamar. Both were close friends, even though they were polar opposities. Lamar had been my boy since junior high and became GSF a year later. We were about the same height, but I was bigger than he was and a better driver. He had respect for all the OG's like my pops and my uncle. While we chilled at poolside, Lamar was killing burgers and steaks like a dog. Lamar was ruthless about getting his paper but lacked the sense God gave a fool. It wasn't a pretty combination. Several times in the last year, I had to get his ass out of bad situations.

Genius carefully bit into and chewed his food. He was a graduate of MIT at 21 with a doctorate at 25. Anything Genius wanted to know, he knew. He wasn't just another Filipino computer whiz either; he had skills on the mic. More than once, it had put his life on the line, but Genius always knew how to fight back. That was actually how I met the dude: He was throwing down with some African-looking dudes and I decided to help out the short dude with the big ole faux-hawk.

"Life is good man! Can you believe this shit? GSF is dominating! I'm gettin' paid crazy. The food is good, and I'm feelin' I'ma meet my wifey tonight, ya heard?" Lamar bragged. "Ain't nobody strong enough to take this down."

"Bullshit, bra," Genius said. "Did you forget the sets GSF took down to get where they are, bra? Yardies, the Italian families, Ballas, and Vagos all still got beef with us. Those sets have been quiet for too long. When they come up again, they're coming for blood."

"Genius, I'm here to enjoy myself at my uncle's birthday party. This ain't the time to talk Families' business," I interrupted.

"You always say that, Franklin, but you never do want to talk about it. You're about to take the reins, bra."

I couldn't believe Genius was bringing it up again. My pops—Sweet Johnson, older brother to X's dad CJ—had run GSF over 20 years, and was one of the most respected men in Los Santos, even if he was a gangbanger. He was always seen with the mayor and with the rich and famous in magazines. The Federals weren't even trying to touch him, he had so much power.

Just last year, I had done something unbelievable: I had pulled off a series of multimillion dollar bank heists. With a series of wise investments, my share of those investments had made me a man of substance and helped out GSF from one of its lowest cash deficits since the early 1990s. People were starting to talk about a new leader, about Sweet stepping down.

The DJ spun Kelis' "Milkshake" into the middle of Usher's "OMG." Everybody around the pool started wildin' out to the almost-classic party mix. A couple of real crazy fine girls started twerking on chairs beside the pool like professional strippers.

"Damn, did you see that bra?" Genius exclaimed as a girl in a white string bikini made the booty clap. My boy might've had a doctorate degree, but he was a straight man too.

"Yeeeaaahhhh, this party's gonna be a straight twerk contest!" Lamar exclaimed, rubbing his hands together greedily.

Almost everyone else was focused on the group of girls working for some money, but I noticed the girl who stepped out from the DJ's booth. She had long reddish-brown hair straightened and falling to her back. Her skin had that exotic light brown color like Alicia Keys with curves like Beyoncé and a cute innocent looking face like Ariana Grande. Her tight body was squeezed into a tiny turquoise bikini. _'Damn, my cousin is growing up too fast,' _I thought.

**Marisol's POV:**

If a man wasn't lookin' at me when I made my entrance into my uncle CJ's party, I knew he was a dick eater immediately. The weak bitches twerking on the side of the pool had nothing on me. That's why the hoes had to show off all their asses for free. Call me overconfident if you want to, but I was lookin' sexy and I knew it.

I got it from both parents. Papi gave me his skin complexion—that beautiful brown Latin glow—and his naturally slim body type. From Mami, I got the killer curves and the style of a grown woman. When I wore Li'l Obese or 8 Jeans, I literally could stop traffic. Mami also passed on her hair to me, but that was easy to tame with a hot iron and plenty of patience.

Me llamo Marisol Kendl Vialpando, oldest child of Cesar and Kendl Vialpando. If you think any puta is badder than me, just remember my Papi is the king of street racing and my Mami shut it down with her own chain of auto detailing and repair shops_ before _she started designing for C. John.

When I said every guy had his eyes on me, I meant _every_ guy. That included Papi, who I literally ran into while I was strolling the poolside.

"What the…"

"Baby girl, don't finish that sentence." Papi scowled at me with his arms folded his chest. He was 6'2" and in his mid-forties with gray hairs showing in his mustache and goatee, but Papi still went to the gym every other day. It showed. I'd seen guys come off doing hard time, bigger and taller than Papi, who backed down when he gave them the look he was giving me now.

"Sorry, Papi, but I…"

Just then, my uncle CJ—whose birthday we were celebrating—ran up to me with a dark blue towel in his hands. Before I could react, he threw it around my body and steered me into Papi's arms. "Marisol, I can't have my favorite niece showing off her body at this party! Where do you think you are?"

"What?!" I batted at my dad's arms and let the towel drop to the concrete floor.

"CJ, I got this." Papi picked up the towel and tried to wrap me into it again, but I frowned and rejected it. "Marisol, put this towel around you."

I put my right hand on my hip and used the other to talk, the way I had seen Mami do when she let someone have it. "That is some hypocritical bullshit, Uncle CJ!"

"Marisol," Papi said in his deadly cold voice, "you know better than to speak to your uncle like that."

"Papi, I'm old enough to speak my mind!"

"Little girl, you don't even know _what_ your mind is yet." Mami strolled into the conversation, lookin' fly and perfect like she always did. With her perfect copper-colored skin, posture like an African queen, and the impeccable sense of style, Mami owned that party without a doubt. She even rocked her pregnant belly like it was the sexiest thing ever in a gauzy sarong draped over her two-piece bikini. I was hoping for another girl because I was tired of being the only other girl in a family of six.

"Mami, you're starting to sound like him!" I protested and pointed at my father. Mami had to see my point of view. She was always talking about how I had to be a strong, independent woman. "Papi wants me to dress like the girls at Our Lady and I _hated_ it there. Please, help me!"

For freshman year of high school, my parents sent me to Our Lady of the Immaculate Conception High School in Los Santos. Ugh! It was the most horrible three weeks ever. Half the girls there were conceiving but it wasn't immaculate. The nuns made us wear plaid skirts and white blouses with argyle vests and Mary Jane shoes, the type of Catholic school uniforms guys fantasize about. I felt like a slut, and what was worse, it was an all-girls' school.

Mami rubbed her belly and grimaced. Even at six months, the new baby was more active than any of us, Mami said. Papi was hoping for another boy, but a soccer star this time. "Marisol, look at what you got on! Your father is right, I see way too much of you right now, little girl!"

I stomped my left foot. "Mami!"

She opened her clutch and pulled out our hotel room key card. Even though Uncle CJ was hosting his birthday celebration at his penthouse apartment atop the Vank Hoff Algonquin, none of us were allowed to stay overnight in his penthouse. He'd convinced everyone to get hotel rooms. "Go to the room and change clothes. And while you're there, check on your brothers."

"Mami!" I whined again. Papi flung the towel around me again and gave me a rebuking glare. _'I'm too pretty to be treated like this!'_

I stormed out the party and down the hall to the elevators. Just as I got there, six men stepped off the only one that reached the penthouse floor. They had no fashion sense at all because they wore all black outfits with one or two splashes of purple, like a bandana or a pair of purple socks under their shorts. I felt their eyes graze over me, and held the towel tighter around my body before rushing onto the vacant elevator. Something about those guys didn't look right, like they didn't belong at the party.

When I got to the room, I was going to call hotel security. After I changed into something more "appropriate."

**Franklin's POV:**

I laughed to myself as Marisol's parents and my uncle sent her away. Lamar followed my gaze. "Shit dawg, isn't that your cousin in that towel?"

"Yeah, Lamar, but she ain't for you. So check yourself nigga."

"Fuck that, nigga, your cousin's tryin' to get some dick, walking around here dressed like that. And she over sixteen, right?"

"She eighteen man, but you still better keep your dick away from her."

"Aye man, I ain't gonna stop her if she come askin' for it."

I shook my head. Lamar had no sense of family loyalty, of love. He was all out for himself. I decided to change the subject. "So Genius, you think I'm next in line, no lie?"

"That's just what people been saying," Lamar objected. "Everybody know I'm the best man to take over from Sweet's old ass."

"Man, don't talk about my pops like that." Lamar was always mouthing about some shit or another. I was just trying to chill.

"Sweet ain't done shit for you but up your respect with GSF. That's all. He never bought you diapers or clothes or shoes when you was a kid. And you had to stay with your dumbass pothead aunt because your mom couldn't raise you any fuckin' way."

"You know what nigga? Say one more fuckin' word about my life, and I'm going to spray your ass all over this party."

Lamar laughed. "Alright, Franklin, chill, we good. So can we get back to business now?"

That's when I heard the first gunshots pop off.


	2. Smooth Criminals

**Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has read the first chapter of this story. I'm about to get into some real meat-and-potatoes plot here, but I guess it wouldn't hurt to clarify a few points:**

**First off, I haven't played the whole GTA V game because I don't own a game system. I did the mission when Franklin met Michael because Franklin was repossessing Michael's son's car. (By the way, Michael's son is an awesome satire; I wonder how many gamers will grasp what the Rockstar story writers did?) So I don't know how Franklin is in the game, but as I go along, if he does anything OOC, please review or PM me and let me know. **

**Secondly, there is the issue of the kids. Xander and Xavier Johnson are CJ's kids by Helena Wankstein from SA, the gun-loving chick with the farm outside of Los Santos in SA. Franklin Clinton is (for the purposes of my plot) Sweet's son by a woman who has yet to be identified. Marisol is Cesar Vialpando and Kendl Johnson's daughter and oldest child. In the upcoming chapters, I'll be introducing Luis Lopez from ****_GTA IV: Ballad of Gay Tony_****; Wu Xi Mu's daughter; and POSSIBLY Cesar and Kendl's oldest son as narrators. **

**Thirdly, I do not agree with Rockstar making a transition from the GTA III era map of Los Santos to the HD era map without clarification. Therefore, the map of Los Santos (and the state of San Andreas as a whole) will more closely resemble the map from SA than the one from V. If I retain any name changes from V (like Vinewood Hills, which did not exist in SA) then I will explain within the context of the story why that name was changed. Ganton, however, will be Ganton and Grove Street will be Grove Street. **

**Warnings in this chapter for vulgar language and violence (I shouldn't have to say that, this is a Grand Theft Auto story), het sexual content, descriptions of nudity, and a major character death. If you can't stomach it, don't read. You've been warned. **

**Enjoy and review/follow/favorite.**

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**Franklin's POV:**

When you've grown up knowning you're gonna be in a gang, you learn the rules of a gunfight real quick: Stay low; draw first. Crazy Devil, the half-Mexican, half-Black Grove Street lieutenant who backed up Sweet and CJ for years, taught me that shit when I was nine. He was the first motherfucker I looked at the way I should've looked at my pops. Too bad he didn't teach me more shit because his dumb ass died in a bullshit car accident a few years before I started wearing colors. Commercials say "don't drink and drive," but that nigga never listened.

I could've used Crazy Devil's help that afternoon. When the first gunshots went off, I half-tackled, half-pushed my boys Genius and Lamar to the ground and pulled out my gun. It was a special edition Howitzer .57, one of the first things I got when I started rolling in dough. Crafted like a handgun, it held about 12 rounds with a standard clip but could hold 16 with an extended clip. There was more technical stuff I should've known about it—accuracy of the bullets, rotation it put on each round, but the most important thing was how quickly it fired and how it could send each bullet punching through solid brick without ever jamming on me.

"Shit, what the fuck is going on?" Lamar demanded.

I looked around. The party had exploded into chaos. Gangstas were guarding their families while looking around for the source of the shots. The way bullets were popping off, I knew there had to be multiple guns blasting. There were individual rounds like from a handgun, and the rapid fire that could only come from a sub-machine gun. I didn't see anybody firing yet, but the fine bitches were already screaming and running to avoid getting shot. The DJ had stopped spinning and that only added to the tension in the air because I'm sure everybody was feeling "The Motto."

"How the fuck should I know, Lamar?" I checked the clip on my gun. It was full. "I was chillin' just like you when the shots went off."

"I'm sayin' you don't know, but still…"

"Just shut the fuck up, pussy ass bitch." Lamar and I stared at Genius. Dude was assembling a mini-SMG from the pockets in his cargo shorts and giving Lamar the evil eye, not even looking at what he was doing. "I got love for you, L, but right now ain't the time for you to be a whiny bitch. This is real. This is life or death."

"What the fuck you talkin' about, Filipino?"

Genius popped the clip into place. "Long as I fuckin' known you, Lamar, you always do the shit that makes no sense. Time for that shit to stop today. Man the fuck up."

Lamar's face frowned. "Man, fuck you, I am manned up. I got bigger balls than both of you bitches."

"Do you got a motherfuckin' gun?"

"Nah." He glanced from my Howitzer to Genius' automatic. "So what's the plan?"

I scanned the party again and spotted a woman in a bikini running into the penthouse. Through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, I watched her reach the front door and get shot through the stomach. It was some fucked up shit. One minute, she was screaming and running. The next minute, she had a hole in her back where her midsection had been.

As she fell, I spotted the motherfucker who did her walking through the penthouse door. He was dressed in black shorts, purple Inverse sneaks, and a large purple tee covered with body armor. I recognized the colors: Ballas. "You bitch, you can shoot an unarmed chick who ain't done shit to you, but you gotta wear body armor? That's bullshit."

He wasn't alone either. I counted three others behind him coming through the penthouse doors. There had to be more than that even. Scanning the rest of the party, I spotted gangstas and their families, and realized nobody else had pulled out a piece yet. Everyone else was unarmed. It was gonna be a fuckin' massacre.

"Here's the plan: Take out the Ballas and protect anybody you see who needs help. Got it?" Lamar and Genius both nodded. "Good, now let's split up to cover more ground."

**Xavier's POV:**

I was in the kitchen on the far side of the penthouse suite with this bad bitch givin' me head like I was paying her. Of course, I wasn't. I'm only 19 and haven't met a bitch yet who lets a nigga cream for more than a ride in a nice car, dinner, and a move. The one in the kitchen was a prime example of the hoes I've been fuckin'. She had watched me from the time I showed up to my pops' birthday party and took me into the kitchen after a few minutes of peepin' my game and a glass of free lemonade. Yeah, that's right: The dumb ho was givin' me dome for a glass of watered down, overly sugared lemonade I picked up from the table with lemonade on it.

While I stood there with my dick bumping against her tonsils, I wondered what stank was gonna cost me. My phone number? A glance at my car keys? A refill of the free lemonade?

Gunshots interrupted my thoughts. I didn't give a shit who was shooting or at whom, but when the bitch took my dick out her mouth with a wet pop, I got mad. I was five seconds from busting my nut! "What was that?" she asked.

Then she had the nerve to stand up! I wasn't tripping too much though because honey had one phat ass booty. It was squeezed into one of those G-strings so little, women wear them just to let a motherfucker know that pussy's all shaved and clean. Booty looked like a pair of tires hugging a strip of red fabric, and the tits sat just right in a string bikini top that barely covered her nipples. My dick started leakin' just from lookin'!

"Shit, it sounded like gunfire. But since it ain't in here, how about you get back down here and gobble my dick?"

I put my hand on her shoulder to urge her onto her knees, but the bitch slapped my hand away! I pushed her in retaliation and she stumbled backwards in her clogs. "X, what the hell? That really hurt!"

"Bitch, don't touch me like that again!"

More gunfire cut the tension between us. The bitch shrank against the penthouse's stainless steel refrigerator. "Oh my God, it's getting closer!"

"No shit, motherfuckin' Sherlock." I was scared too, but not for me. This was my pops' birthday party. My moms'—his ex-wife—and my younger brother were outside where the gunshots were. My aunt and two uncles were out there. I had three half-brothers and two half-sisters outside. "I'm gonna go check it out."

Am I some sort of superhero or spy extraordinaire? Even though I'm built like Superman and make more panties melt than all the James Bond films combined, I'm almost an ordinary kid. I'm Xavier S. Wankstein-Johnson. My moms is Helena Wankstein, assistant district attorney for Los Santos; my pops is CJ Johnson, president and CEO of Hype Boy Entertainment. Pops is the coolest motherfucker on the planet, and Moms is the fiercest White bitch on two legs. Me, I'm built like a defensive lineman (which I am) but with a pretty boy sex appeal that put a notch on my headboard every week through high school. Some bitches come at me because of the nicest cars I got, but after a quick drive and some seat-back love, I don't keep a ho.

I picked up my piece, a Hoser .357, from the marble-topped island in the center of the kitchen. Since my Uncle Jack gave it to me as a Christmas gift four years ago, I had never gone anywhere without it. I just laid it on the counter before stickin' my dick in the bitch's mouth. Equipped with two barrels like a shotgun, the two hair-sensitive triggers allowed me to choose whether to fire one or two rounds with a single shot. In one minute, I could fire 96 rounds with a spin of 196 degrees every .05 seconds because the chamber loaded two individual bullets with a pull of the hammer. Each shot required a pull of the hammer.

I checked the chamber. There were already twelve bullets in place, and two more boxes of bullets were in my hotel room. I cursed myself for being so underprepared.

Pulling up my blue-and-yellow basketball shorts to cover my softened dick, I walked toward the sliding glass door and paused to check my reflection. I was lookin' fine as hell with fresh waves in my dark brown hair, some sexy freckles dotting my face and bare torso, blue-and-white Eris sneakers on my feet, and my 22-karat gold lightning bolt chain around my neck. I blew a kiss at my sexy reflection and turned to the bitch.

"Aye, you stay here, get down behind that counter, and don't get up unless me or the cops come lookin' for you." I wasn't about to end my day without bustin' a nut with her.

She nodded. Before I could open the sliding glass door, she screamed, "Look out!"

I glanced at the door. Two dudes dressed in purple and black aimed their guns at me. I jumped over the counter and it was like my world was moving in slow-motion. A battery of bullets from their submachine guns ripped the glass apart. I was safely behind the counter when I heard the first of their footsteps cross the threshold, but the bitch was still standing up. "Bitch, get the fuck down!"

She put her hands on her hips and glared down at me. "What did you just call me?"

Guns rat-a-tat-tatted, and the bitch went down alright, blanketed in her own blood. "I called you a bitch, but I guess I should've called you a dumb bitch," I said to her corpse.

**Franklin's POV:**

I covered one side of the pool while Lamar headed toward the penthouse and Genius covered the side we were on. All three of us were crouched behind the tables and chairs we could use as shields. I waited until I couldn't see the top of Genius' faux-hawk before I emerged from behind the table and started around the right side of the pool.

The shit I saw when I started crab-walking really fucked with my head. About a dozen dead people were floating in the pool and had turned it a dark red. Over on Lamar's side of the pool, bitches were running for their lives left and right. The slow ones got popped by automatic gunfire, and Lamar was huddled beneath a table, too busy lookin' at they asses to help them.

OG's and up-and-coming gangstas were spread out. Most of them were unarmed and just tryin' to protect each other or they women and children. Because the party was supposed to be family friendly, only a few of the OG's had they straps. Unless me, Genius, and Lamar cleaned house big time, everybody was fucked.

I took off running to the DJ's booth and pushed through the crowd of screaming, running, panicked bitches. A Balla walked down the side of the pool, spraying bitches. He shot one in the back of her head, and I repaid the motherfucker with a bullet to the chest.

Automatic gunfire ripped through the crowd of bikini girls in front of me. Another Balla stood in the DJ's booth. He glanced in my direction, and I ducked behind the speaker. The fool jumped down from the booth and approached the speaker I was hiding behind. I caught that motherfucker in the head with my right elbow. He stumbled back, tried to raise his gun at me, and caught the barrel of my gun in his mouth. Before he could fall backwards into the pool, I blasted a hole through the back of his head.

Then my left arm caught fire. I grabbed it, dropping my gun in the process, and found it sticky with blood. I'd been shot. Before I could reach my gun, a barrel was pressed against my head. I hadn't even seen or heard the motherfucker roll up on me! "Where GSF at now, huh, bitch?"

I couldn't see Lamar or Genius. Everyone else was running around us, trying to make sure they didn't get caught slippin' too. I thought, So this is how I'm goin' die, at my uncle's birthday party? I chose not to close my eyes like some punk bitch might do.

The gunshot I heard was too loud and powerful to be the Balla's submachine gun. I turned my head and watched the motherfucker's grip on my shirt weaken as he slumped to the ground, clutching a hole in his stomach the size of my fist. He tumbled to his left and slid headfirst into the pool.

A few feet away, there stood the meanest motherfucker to wear the GSF green. He had two sawn-off shotguns in his hands and a cut on his forehead. Even if I hadn't seen his face a dozen times before, I would've recognized him anyway. I had his same shade of dark skin, his swole frame, his jawline, and—as much as I hated and refused to use it—his first name.

Sean "Sweet" Johnson had just saved my life. He walked up to me and pressed the barrel of his shotgun to my chest. "Nigga, what the fuck is wrong with you? We got Ballas in our house, and it's time to clean these bitch asses out. Now, are you with Families or not?"

"Yeah, I'm family."

"Alright, nigga, let's get it in. Pick up that gun and stop actin' like a little bitch. It's just a scrape." Sweet pushed by me and stopped halfway to the DJ's booth. "Aye, do I know you from somewhere?"

"Nah."

**Xavier's POV:**

I listened attentively to the sounds of their feet crunching on the shattered sliding door glass. When I'd gone hunting with my moms, one of the first rules she'd taught me was patience, absolute patience. One of the second was listening. Xander didn't get it. He'd spend three minutes trying to imitate me before his HAH (Hyperactive, Attention Hungry Disorder) kicked in and he made noises or moved around, alerting the animals that we were there.

But I could wait. From the weight of their footsteps, I could tell one was heavyset and had feet with fallen arches; his footsteps were even and cracked the glass further. The other was slimmer with high arches in his feet because only the heels of his feet made an impact. As their footsteps rounded the counter, I rolled onto my stomach, aimed the gun at about their chest heights, and artfully pulled both triggers at separate times. The sprays of blood from both motherfuckers chests were beautiful, I promise you.

I ran over their fallen bodies and used the dead men as cushions to reach the poolside. Dead bodies were scattered everywhere. A few floated in the pool like bloody inner tubes; it was artful and repulsive at the same fuckin' time. There were more dead bodies than I'd ever seen before in my life, but there was no way that was all the guests at the party. And I didn't recognize them as any of the important people in my life: Moms, Pops, and Xander.

After all, what's the point of being incredible if there's no one to tell you how incredible I am?

Ballas started crawling out the woodwork! I spotted two on my left and a third on my right, so I took cover inside the doorway of the sliding glass door. Based on the wild exchange of gunfire outside the door, I wasn't the only one embattled with Ballas. Either GSF—Pops' gang fam—was holdin' it down, or Moms'—one of the greatest Gun Lovers Aren't Dangerous members ever—was fully armed. Both were possible, but I had to get back out there to know which for sure.

I lined up the two Ballas in my sights, like I had done on every hunting trip since I was seven or eight. I knew I could take down both of them and the ones on my right; it was just a matter of swiftness. With a squeeze of the two triggers, both the Ballas on the left took bullet wounds to their chests. Before I could turn to the right, an angry and bloody wound ripped open my right upper arm. I slumped against the doorway.

"Got you, motherfuckin' White boy!" I clutched my wounded arm and dodged another flurry of bullets ripping through the metal frame of the doorway. When I looked back to my right, the bitch ass who'd shot me stood over me. He wasn't even six feet tall, but he had a mini sub-machine gun pointed to my face, right at the bridge of my nose. The arterial spray would cover him in my blood. "What the fuck is a white boy like you doin' up in here?"

"Back off asshole, he's with me." The Balla bitch couldn't even raise his gun before four handgun blasts ripped through his chest and knocked him off his feet.

A red-haired woman dressed in a crisp but torn and stained baby blue business suit stepped forward. She had a .357 in her right hand, and with her left, she replaced the empty clip. Then she crouched to meet me at eye level. "Xavier, how many times have I told you: If you have a shooter behind you and a shooter in front of you, stay fully concealed until _both_ are dead?"

"Too many times, Moms," I said through gritted teeth.

I clutched my wounded arm, but Moms knocked away my hand. "It's only a flesh wound, Xavier. Stop being a bitch." She scanned the area around us. "Where is Xander?"

"How did you know I wasn't Xander?"

"Xander waited nineteen minutes longer than you did to come into the world. You've always been impulsive, Xavier. Where's your…."

I barely noticed the flash of purple moving over Moms' right shoulder. "Moms, look out!"

She turned just as the Balla pulled the trigger. I felt Moms' body rock backward from the force of the three bullets that ripped into her chest. Her blood gushed over me and the concrete walk. Before her torso sagged lifelessly, she raised her gun and pulled the trigger three times. The Balla who'd shot her and another gangsta I hadn't even seen took bullets to the chest.

I wrapped my arms around Moms' body, ignoring the pain of my injured arm. Blood was gurgling from her lips and rushing from the front and back of her torso. The bullets had hit her lungs; even if I elevated her, she was going to die from blood loss and from the blood filling her lungs. "Come on, Moms. Don't die on me. Please, Moms, don't die on me?"

I'm not ashamed to admit I cried. Her body shivered, and I realized Moms was going into shock. Her face turned pasty white. One of her manicured hands reached for my face and grazed my right cheek. As she took a shuddering breath, it dropped to her side, wet by my tears. Her lips struggled to move but finally formed the words, "Take care."

**Franklin's POV:**

With a bullet to the motherfucker's throat, Sweet capped the last Balla at the party. We stood over the bitch ass, watching him bleed out and twitchin' and shit. Sweet called out, "If you with GSF, get yo' ass out here! If you with the Ballas, get yo' ass gone!" He offered me his left fist to celebrate with some dap.

I ignored it. "Yo, why you popped that fool? We could've asked him some fuckin' questions!"

"What the fuck?" OG's were gathering around us. Sweet looked from one to the other then stared me down. Closing on fifty years old, Sweet Johnson still looked like the biggest, baddest motherf-er around gangstas who were in their twenties and thirties. "We ain't the damn police. This is Grove Street Families, motherfucker. These were Ballas bitches, our enemies from birth 'til the day we die. Ain't no need for no motherfuckin' questions."

I still glared at Sweet. Some OG's actually waited for my response, but most others were focused on finding their friends and families. I needed to find Genius and Lamar, but I wasn't about to let Sweet embarrass my ass in front of our crew. Fuck that bullshit. "Look, Sweet, we need to know what these motherfuckers were up to."

"They were tryin' to kill our asses. Weren't you payin' attention?"

"This is the Ballas we talkin' about. These motherfuckers came all the way to Liberty City, busted up in here with SMG's, and knew exactly where we were at. They ain't had straps like this shit in years. And how'd they get over here, how'd they know exactly where GSF was gonna be?"

"I'd like to know that shit myself." Sweet turned and spotted the only three people who could put his ass in check: his brother CJ, his sister Kendl, and his brother-in-law Cesar Vialpando.

CJ was a big dude, and when I say big, I don't mean fat. CJ had to be about 6'4", 6'5" and looked like a fuckin' rock in his torn-up gray business suit. Dude had a clean cut, sideburns and goatee connected, and a platinum chain with the Hype Boy Entertainment logo on it, crusted with diamonds. He was a little lighter-skinned than me or Sweet but had the same jawline and eyes as his brother.

Even though I was related to her, Kendl was a fine ass bitch, no lie. She was probably old enough to be my moms, but you could tell she took care of herself. She was almost as tall as Sweet, the same color and eyes as CJ, but with straightened hair falling down on her shoulders. From what I understood, Kendl was pregnant again, and she'd already had like six kids with the Mexican dude named Cesar. She didn't look fat or nothin', just sexy as all hell in her sarong shit.

Leaning between CJ and Kendl, Cesar Vialpando was a Los Santos legend. If you grew up poor, you knew Cesar's story better than you knew CJ's story. Cesar had been part of Varrios Los Aztecas, until they went underground just before the 1992 riots. He became a legend on the street racing circuits, winning somethin' like 60, 70 races, and took back El Corona during the riots for Varrios Los Aztecas. Everybody in Los Santos knew not to fuck with the Varrios because of his ass. Right then though, Cesar had a bullet wound in his kneecap and another in his shoulder and wasn't lookin' too good.

"You think you got a fuckin' say in this shit little brother? This is GSF business, nigga. You abandoned yo' homies years ago to live it up in Liberty," Sweet said.

"I ain't abandon nobody, Sweet. And this is my fuckin' birthday party. I have a right to know shit too."

"You ain't got no right here, nigga."

CJ stepped up into Sweet's space. I couldn't believe he was taller than Sweet. "Police are gonna be all over this hotel in a minute, and I bet you they ain't gonna turn up shit. And yo' ass just killed our last source of information, motherfucker."

Kendl stepped between her brothers with Cesar. "Look, you two can sort this out at some other motherfuckin' time. Right now, I gotta get my man to the hospital and I know Cesar ain't the only one hurt."

The two brothers glared at each other. Finally, Sweet said, "Sis got a point. We gotta talk about this shit some other time. Let's get all the wounded folks together, get them to the hospital." Sweet took Cesar's dead weight and hauled him into the penthouse with Kendl following. The OG's split into two groups, one to look for more wounded people, and the other group to follow Sweet. I spotted Genius and Lamar at the back of the group following Sweet. Lamar tossed off a quick salute to me.

CJ came toward me. "Have you seen your cousins? Xander and Xavier were comin' with their moms and….I don't know about my other kids. Have you seen my kids, Franklin?"

I respected my uncle. At least he acknowledged I was his flesh and blood; my own pops couldn't even recognize me from just another gangbanger in his set. CJ had invited me to the birthday bash, and when I accepted, he had sent me the plane ticket and hotel reservation without hesitation. "I ain't seen 'em since the party started."

"Ok, I'll…" Just then, a Balla motherfucker jumped out from behind the DJ's booth, spraying everybody with more gunfire. I tackled my uncle, raised the gun I still had in my left hand, and shot the motherfucker in the left knee and right shoulder, the arm carrying the gun. "What the fuck?"CJ demanded.

I checked CJ, to make sure he was alright. He wasn't bleeding or nothin', so I went to the Balla and stood over him. Some of the OG's were coming out the penthouse and from around the pool, and that motherfucker had it comin' to him. I knelt beside the Balla with my gun pressed under his chin. "What the fuck were y'all Ballas doin' up here in Liberty?"

He laughed and pulled out a gray remote control from the pocket of his shorts. I should've reacted quicker. He shouldn't have gotten to that red button.

The explosion rocked the whole rooftop.


End file.
